


The winds do not blow as the vessels wish

by TannedBanana



Category: Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Humor, Light Angst, Multi, Original Character(s), for now at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 05:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19986712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TannedBanana/pseuds/TannedBanana
Summary: A breeze ruffled the fabric. It smelled faintly of the sea. For a moment, Hakim thought the red cloth heavy with water and blood.“A wet man does not fear the rain,” Hakim repeated to himself.But does he fear the storm? When the winds blow against his wish, does the wet man know whether to sail with or against them?Hakim walked on.Doyouknow, Hakim?*A royal wedding is a joyous occasion, but there are shadows to expel and memories to bury. (And a certain jinn-turned-human must recover from an untimely flu while the new royal consort tries not to perv on his childhood friend's boyfriend.) Meanwhile, Jasmine rules, and Dalia prepares for a journey.Set between Aladdin and Jasmine's kiss in front of the palace gates and their wedding. Has multiple narrators. Starts slow so please read at your own leisure.**See end note for English definitions of Arabic words used. I do not speak Arabic and have never been to any Middle Eastern countries. I apologize if I inadvertently offend anyone by misrepresenting the language or any part of Middle Eastern culture in this fic. Please let me know of any mistakes in the comments.





	The winds do not blow as the vessels wish

The winds do not blow as the vessels wish.

تجري الرياح بما لا تشتهي السفن

\- Arabic proverb

The first decree Jasmine issued as Sultan was that of distributing food to the poor.

“The reserve at the palace exists exactly for this purpose: relief for those in need,” she asserted to the worried advisors, “I understand your concern about the dangers of giving out food, but right now saving the people of Agrabah is more important than any possible changes in the price of bread.”

The advisors had more to say on the need to cement the merchants’ support, especially considering, well, surely the Sultan realizes the misgivings some might have for— 

“A female sultan, I understand,” Jasmine sighed. “Which is why the distribution will continue only for a short time. There are precedents, as I am sure you are all aware. Within the next few weeks, I will need you to help me create more sustainable opportunities for the poor to feed themselves.” She waved at a servant to bring her more tea. “If you are still worried about the public opinion, we could call this as an act of goodwill inspired by the upcoming royal wedding.” 

“Speaking of, we have not seen the royal consort in some time, your Majesty. Could we inquire where he may be?” An advisor asked, his tone slightly affected at the words “royal consort.” 

Jasmine suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. The story of how Prince Ali was in reality a street thief had spread like fire in the palace. The fact that the jewels and other riches he had brought had vanished when Jafar turned his clothes back to street garb during the fiasco did not help Aladdin’s reputation in that story. While those who witnessed Jafar’s madness and his subsequent defeat staunchly supported Aladdin and spoke frequently of his bravery, there were many who only knew Jafar as a trusted vizier and blamed Aladdin for losing Agrabah’s most respected advisor. It had therefore become popular among the advisors to subtly scorn Aladdin whenever they could. Seeing Aladdin wilt during council meetings was one of the reasons Jasmine had chosen him to go on the mission in Genie’s stead. Another reason, of course, was that Genie was indisposed.

“Aladdin is currently working with the royal guard to draft a more efficient patrol system for the city. I have ordered everyone involved to work in disguise as to not tip off any unscrupulous individuals that may take advantage.” This was not falsehood in the sense that Jasmine did have some of the royal guard working on drafting a new patrol system with the help of Aladdin’s knowledge. The only grounds of a lie would be that of not telling the whole truth. 

“Ah, of course. I’m sure the royal consort’s… expertise, one might say, is of paramount assistance to the royal guard.” The advisor poorly disguised a sneer. Various attempts at turning laughs to coughs followed. Jasmine told herself—as she had done so repeatedly over the past few days—that antagonizing her advisors this early in her days as Sultan will not help her establish political ground and succeeded again in not rolling her eyes. 

“Exactly, advisor,” Jasmine said through a thin smile. “The procedure is taking longer than it usually might since I have employed only the most trustworthy of Hakim’s men. I am not yet convinced that Jafar’s corruption has been completely flushed out from our soldiers.” 

A sudden hush fell among the advisors. It was only days ago that a soldier had tried to attack the royal family. He claimed that they were under the influence of dark sorcery to have made Jafar vanish without a trace and allow a criminal-loving woman to be Sultan. The attack was snuffed quickly but left many unsettled. Even those who disagreed with Jasmine’s rule would not have dreamed to directly harm the former and current sultan. 

The only silver lining of that debacle was that Aladdin and Dalia had not been in the palace. Therefore, the only emotional impact the attack had was on Jasmine’s father. Jasmine had been prepared for public dissent, albeit a less violent one; Hakim, were he here, would have cut away any personal distress at having the royal family in danger to ensure the swiftest response to the threat. Jasmine worried that he may mourn the loss of a soldier, but there was no use worrying over what did not yet happen.

“If no other opinion remains, let us carry out the decree,” Jasmine concluded. As the advisors exited the room, she glanced out to where the sun was setting. Aladdin and Hakim were due to arrive later tonight. Jasmine motioned for the table to be cleared and headed to where Genie was resting. She wanted to clear her head before facing the inevitable, and Genie proved to be good company even when he was barely conscious. 

Jasmine found Genie in a rare moment of wakefulness when she entered his room. A masked physician was dutifully examining him, giving Jasmine one polite bow before resuming his task. Genie turned his head toward Jasmine and smiled slowly. Jasmine chuckled and smiled in return.

“How is he?” Jasmine asked, careful to keep her mouth behind a cloth a servant outside the door had provided. 

“Much better, your Majesty,” the physician replied. “The fever has vanished, and his mucus has thinned considerably. His coughs have abated as well.” The physician pressed an instrument against Genie’s tongue and peered inside his mouth. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he had found, he wiped the instrument against a clean cloth and put it away.

“Can the quarantine be lifted then?” Jasmine eagerly asked. 

“I would like it to remain for few more days,” the physician replied. “He is rather delicate, and I do not wish to take any chances. It was the common chill that made him collapse. Who knows what other innocuous matter will harm him?” 

“I gotta say, I take offense at being treated like this,” Genie rasped. “No one’s ever called me delicate in my life. I ain't delicate!” 

“Say that when you can make through a wedding night without swooning, my friend,” said the physician. He ignored Genie's indignant cough and rose to bow deeply at Jasmine before leaving the room. 

Jasmine watched him head out with a fond smile. “He was my favorite physician when I was young. Always gave me sweets after looking over me.”

“He didn’t give me no sweets, and even if he did I wouldn’t like him,” Genie grumbled. “I’m fine. I should be out there sailing with my wife. Or with your guy, what’s-his-name, the jiniral liwa’. Not here, tied up in bed.” Genie sighed dramatically. An equally dramatic cough followed. “Darn this cough!” He wheezed. 

“I don’t know, I would think being tied up in bed suits you perfectly,” Jasmine mused. “Isn’t that what you were doing before swooning?"

“I did not _swoon_!” Genie spluttered.

“I distinctly recall finding a certain someone _tied up_ —”

“You’re a sultan! Don’t you have decorum? Dignity? Better things to talk about than what I do in my own bed?” 

Jasmine laughed, her shoulders loosening. It was less than a week that she had been acquainted with Genie, but they had taken to each other like long-lost siblings. Jasmine found herself being more playful and honest, sometimes downright vulgar when she talked to Genie. Dalia knew everything there was to know about her, and Aladdin could take one look into her eyes and quietly give her what she needed. Yet, to them Jasmine was still a princess, and now a sultan. It wasn’t fair to them, she knew, but years of training herself to view everyone as a subject to take care of had installed in Jasmine a constant weight of responsibility. 

She wasn’t closed off by any means. Many times she had been in trouble for speaking freely. However, there was a narrow but deep well inside her that she kept closely guarded. It was a well of burden, of knowledge only a royal can comprehend: stability above all else. The winds do not blow as the vessels wish, but those on board must be unaware of their veering course. Jasmine was already labelled a radical with her ambition to rule and a marriage to a commoner in the works. She couldn’t afford to be painted as peculiar in any other aspects. The people seek comfort in the familiar, and they turn to royalty for that reassuring sameness. It was Jasmine’s job to be the rock, the unchanging symbol of Agrabah. Only when they see her as that symbol will they accept her rule as Sultan.

This man in front of her, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Here was a being with 10,000 years of life. Whatever Jasmine knew paled in comparison to a fraction of what Genie had seen. To him, Jasmine wasn’t a sultan, or any other equivalent of the term he had encountered. There was no need to project stability to this man, since he very well knew that stability and turmoil were two faces of the same coin. Hence the gratuitous teasing, sometimes inappropriate and always private. 

“There really aren’t better things to talk about, unless you’re curious about the fine print of my first decree,” Jasmine said. 

“Any news from the kid?” Genie's voice was the same, low rasp, but concern shone through his eyes. It was a similar kind of concern that had preoccupied the back of Jasmine’s mind since Aladdin and Hakim left for the desert road a week ago.

“They are due to arrive tonight,” Jasmine assured Genie. They both glanced out at the now dark sky. The moon had begun to rise.

*

Dalia’s brothers made sure to explicitly and repeatedly show their amusement at how Dalia’s groom had fainted on their wedding night. 

“Are you sure you are properly married?” Ahmed, her second brother jibed. “Did you get to feel ‘usaylatahu?”

“Or at least taste it? A man who dies without a mouth on his zibb is a sad man indeed,” her third brother, Khalil, joined in.

“The marriage was fully consummated,” Dalia said with a sniff. “Not that it is any of your business.”

“Of course it’s our business, ‘ukhti aleaziza,” Ahmed whined. “Our precious flower has finally been plucked. It is our job to make sure the man who did the plucking is worthy of collecting your honey.”

“And I hope for his sake that he’s comfortable with tasting it!” Khalil boomed. “A true man must know how to kneel for his lover’s pleasure.”

“What is this fixation you have with tasting, Khalil?” 

Ahmed and Khalil immediately stopped sniggering as Mehdi walked in. Mehdi, while neither taller nor broader than Ahmed or Khalil, exuded a presence only the oldest child can. Dalia beamed and embraced him, Mehdi’s familiar scent of rose oil and incense transporting her back to when she used to watch her brother carefully catalogue different kinds of oud and waft smoke to scarves and headdresses. Mehdi, his handsome face framed by a spicy cloud of heavenly smell, had looked like a mythical creature to young Dalia’s eyes. It was just as well Dalia was now married to a former jinn.

“We all know that Khalil was always too slow to eat his share of sweets before I stole them. You mustn’t blame him for carrying that childhood burden with him,” Ahmed sauntered over and pushed Dalia out of the way to hug Mehdi. “Mm, you are littler than the last time I saw you! Did Nadia not treat you well?” 

Mehdi chuckled and allowed Ahmed to kiss his forehead. “Nadia is good, and I am fine. I am happy to see you all.” Mehdi gave a soft “oomph” when Khalil shoved Ahmed off and lifted Mehdi off his feet with a bone-crushing hug.

“We missed you, ‘ahki,” Khalil mumbled against Mehdi’s hair. 

“I missed you, too,” Mehdi said softly and mussed Khalil’s hair as the younger brother gently put him down. “Let us eat, then you must tell me all about what you have been doing for the past quarter-year. But, first things first. Dalia.”

It was slightly insulting how quickly Dalia felt like a five-year-old when Mehdi levelled a stern look at her. 

“How is it that you marry a man you have known for mere days without even inviting your family to the ceremony?” Mehdi chastised. “Was there no time to drop by the house? To write your brothers?”

“I’m sorry, ‘ahki,” Dalia said, “I wish I could explain, but there really isn’t a reason that’ll sound practical.” 

Mehdi peered at Dalia, expression thoughtful. Dalia’s brothers all had impulsive streaks. Khalil was a soldier notorious for his gambling. Ahmed, a merchant, would inexplicably bring a product no one in Agrabah had ever seen before and try to turn it into the latest fad. Mehdi, seemingly the most level-headed, hopped a ride on travelling caravans to other countries at random with only a beautifully-written note at his perfumery as notice. Another well-written note would arrive from Zeipan or even Shirabad within a few days of his departure. Dalia, by the virtue of being the baby of the family, often had to pick up the pieces after a brother’s antics inevitably backfired. It was refreshing to be on the trouble-causing side of things for a change. 

“I suppose the wild in your blood had to act out at some point, ‘ukhti,” Mehdi conceded. “I just worry that this man may not be who you think he is.”

“Especially if he fainted on your wedding night!” Ahmed shouted from the kitchen.

“Eat shit!” Dalia shouted back. She shrugged innocently at Mehdi’s flat look and linked her arm with his. “I know what you mean, ‘ahki, but I promise you he is a good man.” She led him to the table, where Khalil had already started stuffing himself. “And he is excellent at taking _and_ tasting honey. He has a true talent for rubbing, you see. Must be all that experience of being rubbed for 10,000 years.” 

Dalia and Mehdi smirked at each other as Khalil promptly choked on his bread.

The dinner was merry, as all family dinners usually were. Dalia argued spiritedly with Khalil (“General Hakim is not having a secret tryst!” “That’s what you say, ‘ukhti, but then why haven’t the soldiers seen him recently? Clearly the man has taken advantage of the recent romantic atmosphere to bag himself a hapless youngster.” “A ‘hapless youngster’? Really, Hakim is not as old as you think he is—”), made fun of Ahmed’s recent attempt at popularizing a feather vest (“You realize Agrabah is near a desert. More insulation is not the way to go.”), and listened incredulously to tales of Mehdi’s adventures in Nadia (“What do you mean, you didn't realize you were eating _testicles_?”). The sun had set by the time they finished eating. 

“Must you return to the palace tonight, ‘ukhti?” Mehdi asked, “Ahmed and Khalil had you to themselves for so long, but I only saw you for a half-day. I don’t see the harm in your spending a day or two more here.” 

“I must get back,” Dalia replied regretfully, “There are important errands to attend to for the Prin— Sultan, and I must check up on my husband.”

“Of course, he could have been killed by tripping over the stairs,” Ahmed teased, swiftly avoiding Dalia’s kick to his shin. 

All three brothers saw her out when she left. She gave each of them a kiss and promised to visit again soon. Outside, she saw that the moon had risen. The streets were still crowded, the bright moon encouraging nighttime strollers. A jaunty oud tune was playing somewhere nearby. Better get to the main road before an impromptu festivity drew too many people. Dalia was all for a dance or two, but she hadn’t seen Genie in nearly a week and wanted to make sure that he was all right.

The night Genie fainted had been a surprise to everyone involved, and unfortunately “everyone” hadn’t been just Dalia and Genie like it should have been for a normal wedding night. The physician had declared the cause to be a chill, likely to have been caught from one of the servants who had been coughing for days before the wedding. Apparently, Genie’s new human body was devoid of fighting mechanisms an adult human body would have after being exposed to different sicknesses. A quarantine had been ordered until Genie could fight off the cold. Genie as a human was to be “treated like a baby,” to use the physician’s words. Nobody had missed the irony of a former cosmic being’s relegation to baby-status. 

Jasmine had suggested that Dalia stay with her brothers during the quarantine. “I don’t mean for you to abandon your new husband,” she had said over Dalia’s protests. “He will be in good hands. You should spend time with your family, especially if you are to leave the city soon. They’re also probably furious for not being invited to the wedding. So you really should make it up to them before they march into the palace and stage a revolt to see you.”

Another piece of irony, that. Not a day had passed after Dalia arrived at her brothers’ when he heard from Khalil a one-man murder attempt at the royal family. Upon hearing the news Dalia had almost bolted right back to the palace, but Khalil had passed along a personal note from the Sultan reassuring Dalia that “everything was fine.” That was Princess-speak (Sultan-speak now. Dalia should remember to change the labels she kept for a mental list she had long ago named “Jasmine’s Weirdness”) for “Do not pry.” 

Dalia had known Jasmine since her birth, had held the tiny princess’s fingers as Dalia’s mother helped the queen feed her. Dalia never fooled herself into thinking that she could understand everything about her princess (Sultan, now) and didn’t mind being kept out of the loop on certain things. If something went wrong and Jasmine’s heart was hurt, that was when Dalia was needed.

And her new family would need her the same way. Her children, of course, and Genie, too. 10,000 years of life meant much knowledge but also much hurt and loneliness. Genie hid it well behind his loud humor, but only someone who knew unhappiness could try so hard to make others laugh. They would laugh together, now, for as long as fortune let them.

Dalia greeted the guards as she passed the palace gates. There were fewer guards than there used to be. Jasmine had called the massive number of guards in the palace preposterous and had promptly sent away at least a third of them to patrol the city and its outer wall instead. She hurried up to Jasmine’s rooms, wanting to quickly greet her before heading to where Genie was. When she arrived at the familiar golden doors, she knocked and announced herself. To her surprise, it wasn’t Fatima, the new handmaiden, that answered the knock, but the royal consort. He was dressed in traveller’s clothes.

“Marhaba, Dalia,” Aladdin said with a tight smile. “Please, come in. The Sultan is out on the balcony.”

Dalia walked past the table on which Abu was sprawled out on a makeshift bed of scarves. Fatima was nowhere to be seen. Jasmine had her back to the room, her head bowed over something she was holding. 

“Your Majesty,” Dalia called out, hesitant to get closer. There was tension in the room, and she wasn’t sure of its cause. 

Jasmine startled and abruptly turned around. “Marhaba, Dalia,” she echoed the royal consort, a quick smile briefly softening her face. “It is good to see you.” 

In Jasmine’s hands was a dark oil lamp. Its brass handle gleamed in the moonlight. 

*

Hakim woke before sunrise. He mechanically went through his solitary training routine, cleaned himself, dressed in his gear, and went out to check the Sultan’s rooms. The guards saluted him as he walked past, and he saluted them in return. He checked that the guards positioned outside the Sultan’s rooms were sufficiently alert and headed to the kitchens, which was already bustling with cooks and servants.

“Did you sleep well, Hakim?” Gautami asked without turning from the fire. Hakim never understood how the cook noticed his presence without looking. 

“Yes,” Hakim lied. Gautami said nothing, and Hakim gave in, knowing it was fruitless to try to keep something from her. “No. The night was not ideal.” An understatement even by Hakim’s standards, but Hakim had not learned how to put names to what he felt.

“Seems it’s been a rough night for many people,” Gautami said, chopping vegetables whip-fast. “The royal consort was here just now. Looked a fright, the poor boy.”

“You mustn’t call the royal consort a boy,” Hakim said, accepting a samoon from Gautami’s little son, who was finally allowed to work in the kitchens after years of begging. “Shukran, Vihaan.” The boy smiled shyly and gave a clumsy salute, giggling as Hakim saluted back.

“He’s barely old enough to not wet himself,” Gautami grunted. There was now a small mountain of assorted vegetables next to the boiling pot. “Either in his own bed or in someone else’s.”

“Gautami, please,” Hakim said stiffly. “Mind the actual boy in the room.” 

The cook snorted. “Do you really think my son doesn’t know what happens in a marriage bed at his age?” 

Hakim glanced down at the boy. Vihaan wagged his eyebrows and made a crude hand gesture that Hakim immediately slapped away. “He is not yet ten years old, Gautami.”

“I wasn’t much older when I’d had to learn, fast.” Gautami fanned the fire. “Vihaan, go fetch me the saffron and rose water.” The boy winked at Hakim and shuffled to the pantry. 

All Hakim knew about Gautami came from such snippets. Gautami had already been working in the kitchens when Hakim came to the palace with his father; she was one of the few people the late queen had brought with her from Shirabad. She was Hakim’s second oldest friend in the palace, after― 

_Does it not become me, Hakim?_

Hakim forcefully shut down the image of a wicked grin spreading under twinkling eyes. Gautami’s voice cut through Hakim’s mental struggle: 

“Did you dream of him again?” 

“No.” Hakim chewed the last of the samoon and swallowed.

Gautami tutted. “You know you can’t lie to me―”

“I will not discuss this.” Hakim found a jug of water and drank from it with large gulps. “Shukran. For breakfast.”

“This is not over!” Gautami yelled as Hakim walked out.

Once a suitable distance away from the kitchens, Hakim stopped to take a calming breath. A wet man does not fear the rain, his father used to tell him. The greatest suffering had already passed. He must not be afraid of its shadow, however lingering it may be. After composing himself, Hakim made for the palace gates. The royal consort was waiting, dressed in his old street garbs of plain trousers and a shirt under a red vest. 

_Blood is red, Hakim. I have bled much on my way to Agrabah._

“Sabah al-khair, Hakim,” Aladdin offered with a smile. The royal consort sounded too cheerful for someone who had supposedly slept poorly. Such endurance seemed to be his defining quality. No adversity on the road had dampened Aladdin’s spirits. He would have made a good soldier in another life. 

_I am a soldier of life, you see. A survivor who bled many times. I will therefore robe myself in red._

“Sabah al-noor,” Hakim replied. “Are you ready for today’s task, your Excellency?” 

Aladdin winced at the formality. “You were fine with dropping the title out in the desert, Hakim. I think we should stick to that personal tradition.”

_It will be like a tradition to adhere to every day. A tradition only for myself, isn’t it marvelous? Her Majesty suggested it._

“I suppose,” he conceded, “we can continue the ‘tradition’ since we are to keep a low profile today.”

“Yeah, about that,” Aladdin looked pointedly at Hakim’s attire. “What’s up with the scary soldier look? We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

“I have a place in the city where I keep other clothes,” said Hakim. “I will change there once I look to a matter that requires my official ‘look.’”

“Okay,” the royal consort shrugged. He knew enough of Hakim’s methods by now not to ask what the “matter” was. “Should we leave separately, then? Meet up at Mehrunisa’s?”

Hakim nodded. 

“Well, in that case,” Aladdin grinned mischievously and pulled at the gates. “See you later, Hakim!”

_Alas, I must go rescue my queen from being bored to death by her brother. See you later, Hakim!_

Hakim waited for a quarter-hour before heading out the gates himself. The main road was more crowded than usual, livelier than it had been a mere week ago. Hakim briskly ducked into an alley framed by brilliant pieces of fabric swinging from lines above. After many twists and turns, he stopped in front of a small shop with a weather-beaten scimitar chained to its entryway. Hakim tried on the door and found it bolted. 

“Yousef!” Hakim called, thumping on the door. He continued pounding loudly until he heard a man groan inside. The shop’s window creaked open, and a stout man with bloodshot eyes sullenly peered out.

“You again,” the man croaked. “What do you want?”

“Open the door,” Hakim ordered. “The Sultan requires your service.”

Yousef heaved an enormous sigh. “I keep telling you, I have business hours. It sounds novel, I know, to you workaholic types, but really, you should look up what it means―”

“I will not ask again,” Hakim cut the man off.

“For the record, there was no ‘asking’ in this conversation.” Yousef disappeared from the window. The sound of a bolt coming undone came through, then the door opened. “There has never been any ‘asking’ when it comes to you and your prissy employers.”

Hakim ignored the man’s rambling and entered the shop. Inside was a haphazard display of swords, spears, and various other weaponry. Yousef liked to complain and never did anything without a hefty sum for his troubles, but he was the best when it came to deadly tools. It was a stroke of luck that he had opened first here in Agrabah and also that he’d stayed. Hakim shuddered to think what an army larger than that of Agrabah could have achieved with Yousef’s weapons. Even with the recent increase in the number of Agrabah soldiers, there were many larger kingdoms nearby. 

_Such is why Agrabah must recruit more aggressively, Hakim._

“So what is it you want now?” Yousef asked disdainfully, making a show of arching his back and stretching his limbs. “Whatever it is must be _paramount_ for you to be here before it’s barely dawn.”

“First light was hours ago,” Hakim replied reflexively. 

“I honestly cannot exaggerate enough how I couldn’t care less,” Yousef plopped himself onto a stool behind the dusty counter at the corner of the shop. 

_I could not care less about how you do it. I require you to, and that is all._

Hakim clenched his fists. “The Sultan requires you to forge a blade for an execution.” 

Yousef froze in the middle of a yawn. “A what now?”

Hakim stared flatly at Yousef. The man’s beady eyes were more knowing than the man led others to believe. A completely different pair of eyes flashed in Hakim’s mind. Hakim closed his eyes.

Yousef barked a laugh. “Your wish is my command,” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Tell me, o great one, what grand criminal deserves a specially forged blade when any sharp sabre would do?” When Hakim did not reply, Yousef added with a raised brow, “Or a dull one, if her Majesty is feeling particularly cruel.” 

_How cruel are the winds that do not blow as the vessels wish._

Hakim continued his silence.

“Fine, fine,” Yousef rolled his eyes. “What kind of blade and how heavy?” 

“Slight curve, single-edge,” Hakim replied. “Very light. Light enough for an untrained woman.”

_The woman is weak! She doesn’t listen to me, and she refuses to save him from_ his own kin _._

“Well, well. There was gossip that the new Sultan will be too soft, on account of being a girl and all.” He took out a scroll and jotted down a line. “I guess gossip is just gossip, can’t be trusted. How fast will you need it?”

“As soon as possible. No more than three days.” Hakim’s fists tightened.

“Asking for a miracle, as always. It’ll cost you extra, but I don’t need to be telling you that. Anything else? Ornamental colors?”

_The red stays. The black is only to ornament. Grief will not paint me defeated but decorate my survival._

Hakim’s nails were digging into his palms. “No,” he gritted out.

“Got it. See you in three days, o silent one.” Yousef mock-saluted. Hakim ignored it and turned away.

Hakim walked back out to the alley, his feet moving of their own accord. He faltered as he saw a rich red cloth with black embroidering, swaying freely from a line. Hakim cursed whatever cosmic power was so thoroughly toying with him. He marched to where the fabric hung and grabbed a fistful, yanking it down forcefully.

“You wish to buy, jiniral liwa’?” A timid voice asked. 

_My jiniral liwa’, I have such big plans for you._

Hakim blinked rapidly. He looked at the merchant, then down at the fallen cloth. Even dirtied from the road, the fabric was still brilliantly red, the embroidered pattern painstakingly ornate. 

Hakim had not learned how to put names to what he felt. 

“Yes,” he answered. He paid the merchant and started for the main road, arms full of cloth that he didn’t know what to do with. He absently thought of gifting it to Mehrunisa, the friend of Aladdin’s who had been helping the royal guard map the new patrol route. The woman and her group of girls could use some sturdier material. 

A breeze ruffled the fabric. It smelled faintly of the sea. For a moment, Hakim thought the red cloth heavy with water and blood.

“A wet man does not fear the rain,” Hakim repeated to himself. 

_But does he fear the storm? When the winds blow against his wish, does the wet man know whether to sail with or against them?_

Hakim walked on.

_Do_ you _know, Hakim?_

*

In retrospect, Aladdin should have waited until Mehrunisa had got here before letting himself into her place. And he should have maybe brought Abu.

“I knew it! A woman so beautiful cannot have only one man,” a tree trunk of a man blubbered into Aladdin’s shoulders. “I’d hoped I was at least enough to satisfy her in bed, but I was wrong. Wrong!” He blew his nose noisily on Aladdin’s hood. 

This had officially gone too far. “Hey, buddy…” Aladdin said, wishing again that Abu was here to distract the sobbing man into releasing Aladdin from his arms. “I’ve been saying this a whole lot, but I really am just a friend of Mehrunisa’s.”

The man released Aladdin to hold him at arm’s length and looked pleadingly into his eyes. The man’s teary eyes had flecks of green and yellow, and wow this was one pretty man. Go Mehrunisa. 

“One does not simply be friends with a goddess!” He declared. Apparently overcome again with feeling, he crushed Aladdin into his arms and rocked back and forth with shaking shoulders.

“And here we go again,” Aladdin sighed and patted the larger man awkwardly on the back. “There, there. Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Abdel!” a shrill voice pierced through the man’s sobs.

“Mehrunisa!” The man—who was called Abdel, apparently—promptly threw Aladdin to the floor. “My goddess, my desert flower,” he dramatically walked across the room to where the plump woman stood and fell to his knees. “Please do not tell me that our days are no more. I beg of you.” Abdel tenderly held one of Mehrunisa’s hands to his lips and proceeded to kiss her fingers with fervor.

“What,” Aladdin said helplessly from the floor. “ _What_.”

“Abdel, stop,” Mehrunisa said. “We have company.” She ran a hand—the one not being thoroughly caressed by Abdel’s admittedly very soft-looking lips—through her dark curls, huffing an exasperated sigh.

“Really, I’d like someone to tell me what’s going on,” Aladdin sat up and glared. “ _Before_ the jiniral liwa’ gets here, preferably. You might know him? Tall, brooding, probably too awkward to ask about the weirdness but very likely to cut you if things are fishy?”

“Stand up, Abdel. Don’t make me say it again,” Mehrunisa said sternly to the kneeling man. 

Abdel looked up at Mehrunisa with such heated eyes that were the muelama here, she would have doused the man with cold water and thrown him out to the streets. “As you wish, mahbubi.” He stood and kissed her sweetly on the lips. “Shall I bring tea for you and your… guest?” 

Aladdin flinched as the other man directed him an equally heated look, albeit in the more murderous, I-hate-your-existence kind of way. 

“Yes, shukran,” Mehrunisa replied. She waited until Abdel busied himself with the tea set before coming over to Aladdin and giving him a hand. “Marhaba, Aladdin,” she said, tugging Aladdin to his feet.

“Marhaba,” Aladdin grunted. “Here are some fun questions for you: who is he, _what_ is he, and why haven’t I seen him before?”

“Abdel. He is my… We are seeing each other,” Mehrunisa said with a soft smile that barely showed the gap in her front teeth. The tone of her voice suggested that if her skin had been lighter, she would be as red as Aladdin’s—unfortunately now snotty—vest. 

Maybe Aladdin had died in the Cave of Wonders the first time around, and everything after that was some kind of bizarre afterlife. A jinn, an evil sorcerer, dating a sultan, he could take it in stride. But an embarrassed Mehrunisa? Nuh-uh. Nope. 

“We met at the harvest dance. My dress almost caught fire, and he put it out with his tunic.” Mehrunisa sat at the small table in the middle of the room. “The polite thing to do was to offer him a new one, and so naturally I had to bring him home,” Mehrunisa said playfully, her freaky smile replaced with a familiar smirk.

Well, if this was the afterlife, it had just readjusted itself to being a normal one. “Congratulations, I guess?” Aladdin glanced at Abdel, who was adding strange things to what really should be a simple morning tea. “He seems… large. And thick. And incredibly wet, ugh, the crying— and wow I just heard myself, please don’t make this weird.”

Mehrunisa threw her head back and laughed. “Does the Sultan know her royal consort has such a dirty mind?” She teased.

“What, no. Just. Stop.” Aladdin groaned as very attractive and very inappropriate images of Jasmine flashed through his mind. To distract himself he blurted, “Anyway, this isn’t about me. It’s about you! Breaking our pact!”

Aladdin and Mehrunisa had promised themselves to each other at age seven, mostly because the only thing they had known about marriage at the time was that married couples got more shares than regular people whenever some charity-prone noble distributed food to the poor. Nothing came of it, and neither Aladdin nor Mehrunisa had entertained the thought of being together. But the “engagement” was a fond memory for both of them, and they used to play it up for strangers for monetary pursuits.

“Come on, Aladdin,” Mehrunisa huffed. “You’re going to be _married_. If anyone broke our pact, it’s you.”

“But you did it first!” Aladdin wailed.

Mehrunisa held up a finger. “May I remind you I helped you two get together that day when you were being chased by the guards?”

It was an old but reliable trick they had fallen back on sometimes, Mehrunisa buying time for Aladdin to escape, although Mehrunisa had moved on from stealing long ago. On that particular day it had been even more welcome than usual since Jasmine had been running with him.

Still. There were _principles_. “So you broke our pact by getting me with Jasmine! Traitor!” 

Mehrunisa laughed again, this time softer. “You are as ridiculous as ever, Aladdin.”

Aladdin’s reply was stopped by the tinkling of a tea tray being laid down. 

“Here you go, mahbubi,” Abdel offered a teacup gently to Mehrunisa and turned to Aladdin. His ridiculously symmetric face seemed torn between wanting to slam a cup in front of him and not wanting to break his precious desert flower’s glassware.

Aladdin took pity and served himself. “Shukran, Abdel. I’m Aladdin, by the way. Nice to meet you.” 

One of Abdel’s shapely eyebrows twitched. 

“I did let you cry on my shoulders,” Aladdin needled. “I think that was pretty big of me, considering I didn’t even know you. Well, I still don’t really know you, but you know what I mean.” He sipped his tea and almost dropped the teacup in pure bliss. “Hmgh,” he moaned. 

Mehrunisa gave him a knowing look. “Good, right?”

“So good.” Aladdin took a large gulp. “What did you put in here, opium?”

“It is simply tea,” Abdel said stiffly. He squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his impressive full height. “I will leave you two to talk, mahbubi. See you tonight.” 

Aladdin watched Abdel kiss Mehrunisa on the cheek and leave the house. Even the man’s backside was exquisite. Aladdin thanked whatever power that was in charge of shaping men that a specimen like Abdel existed. To be classified as the same kind of creature as him was an honor. 

“So,” Aladdin turned back to Mehrunisa, “how’s the work going for the new patrol route?” 

“Well enough,” Mehrunisa replied. “The men are very efficient. Some of them don’t know how to act around the girls, but no surprises there.”

“The muelama can’t be happy with letting the girls spend so much time away from their books.” Aladdin clicked his tongue.

The muelama was a strict woman who ran a school for daughters being raised to take over the shops of their respective families. The school was known for being more rigorous than most, partly due to the muelama’s unbending philosophy and partly due to the students’ enthusiasm. The flip side of the latter was that the girls’ enthusiasm was not contained to just letters and numbers. They got especially curious about the “mysterious” thief that visited Mehrunisa—who helped the muelama with various chores in exchange for tutoring in numbers—time to time. They had once made a competitive game of chasing Aladdin in the streets on one of the days he had dropped by. 

The muelama had not been pleased with the ensuing chaos, which was why she became even more disapproving of him. Whenever she found Aladdin in her classroom, she went at him madly with her rod. Ironically, Mehrunisa had told him, the muelama had never used the rod on any of the girls. 

On the bright side, the girls’ ensuing interest in the layout of Agrabah’s streets was now helping the royal guard. They devised shortcuts the guard could take when pursuing running criminals and gladly volunteered themselves as the role of “Aladdin,” as they called it, when the soldiers ran a mock pursuit.

“Of course,” Mehrunisa laughed and took a sip of her tea. “The girls are trying to convince her that the experience will be useful for when they start working. The parents for the most part think it’s amusing.”

“I was thinking I could take a look at the routes that’s been drawn up,” Aladdin offered. “See if I can improve anything.” 

“That is why you’re here today, of course.” Mehrunisa finished her tea and poured herself another cup. “When is the jiniral liwa’ coming?”

“I don’t know,” Aladdin shrugged. “He said he had to stop by somewhere on the way.”

“Was that thing you had to do with him successful?” Mehrunisa asked.

Aladdin thought of the deceptively small brass lamp and the shadows in Jasmine’s eyes last night as she carefully held the lamp without rubbing it. 

“Yes.” He bit his lower lip, not missing how Mehrunisa’s eyes narrowed. “It was. It’s just difficult to talk about, ‘cause, you know,” he faltered.

His childhood friend peered at him searchingly. “I know you will be king in three days,” she spoke softly, “and there will be many things you won’t be able to tell me. But promise me this, Aladdin.”

Aladdin avoided her eyes and instead looked down at his teacup. There was still some amber liquid that remained near the bottom. He tilted his cup and sloshed the tea around absentmindedly. 

“Aladdin, look at me.”

Aladdin slowly looked up, meeting Mehrunisa’s eyes from under his lashes. 

“Promise me, please,” Mehrunisa reached out and circled her hands around Aladdin’s, “that if something unexpected happens, something bad,” she tightened her grasp, “you think before throwing yourself into danger.” 

“Too late for that,” Aladdin gave an awkward laugh. “I already did many dangerous things, remember?” Falling down a cave full of lava, drowning in the sea, freezing at the end of the world. Add a lifetime of stealing and starving, and he was a walking guide on dying early in life.

“Yes, Aladdin, of course. But I’m not talking about that kind of danger,” Mehrunisa said dismissively. “There’s a far worse danger when it comes to you. One regarding your heart.”

Aladdin tugged his hands away from Mehrunisa’s. “Come on, Mehrunisa,” he whined. “Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

“ _Aladdin_ ,” Mehrunisa admonished.

“Okay, fine,” Aladdin threw his hands in the air. “I promise I’ll— what was it again?”

“Think before you choose to endanger your heart, should something unexpected happen,” Mehrunisa said. She sounded like she was reciting something from a book.

“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” Aladdin exaggeratedly cleared his throat. “I promise,” he declared with a flourish, “that I’ll think before I choose to endanger my heart, should something unexpected happen.” He scratched the back of his ear, uncomfortable with the lofty cadence. “Are we done now?”

To Aladdin’s horror, Mehrunisa looked almost sad. 

“Oh, come on, Mehrunisa!” Aladdin squawked. “I did what you asked me to. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mehrunisa’s expression flickered to a somewhat unconvincing smile. “I’m allowed to have hidden depths,” she said with a lighter tone. 

Aladdin decided to let it go. “If you say so.” He downed his remaining tea. “Let’s see what you and the girls got, now. Do you have it on a map?”

**

End of Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> jiniral liwa' : general  
> 'usaylatahu : sperm of her husband (for full reference look to IOSR Journal Of Humanities And Social Science (IOSR-JHSS). Volume 23, Issue 10, Ver. 4 (October. 2018). 87-90 e-ISSN: 2279-0837, p-ISSN: 2279-0845. www.iosrjournals.org)  
> zibb : short for zabra, which means "penis"  
> ‘ukhti aleaziza : my dear sister  
> 'ahki : brother  
> marhaba : hello  
> shukran : thank you  
> sabah al-khair : good morning  
> sabah al-noor : reply to "sabah al-khair"  
> mahbubi : my lover, sweetheart  
> muelama : schoolmistress, mistress


End file.
